Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Archie stepped back and observed Miss Valentina Hart as she gambled on roulette like she really meant it.
He’d only brought her here as a lark, to get her mind off having just lost her employment. Of course, her place at the Five Graces was no great loss. She could do better, though, curiously, she didn’t seem to understand that.
After her fifth win in a row, she tossed him a smile. Eyes bright, a dimple in her left cheek, he sensed daring in that smile. A daring that pushed through her natural reserve.
A daring that called to a place in him that had no choice but to respond. “You’re wilder than you think, you know,” he couldn’t help saying.
She tossed a laugh his way and played on, wild and daring, for a length of time that was impossible to track within the timeless confines of a gaming hell. Certainly, she lost here and there, but mostly she won and won and won.
Then it started.
She began losing.
Once was a fluke.
Twice was a bit of bad luck.
Thrice was a pattern.
Dame Fortune had, at last, deserted her. It had been bound to happen, as it did to every gambler. Miss Hart, however, hadn’t yet learned that hard fact and kept throwing money at the problem. Archie sensed in his gut it would only get worse from here.
Her smile fell with each spin of the wheel, the crease between her eyebrows deepening. When she was down to two markers, her gaze flicked toward him, then skittered away. But the contact lasted long enough for him to catch an emotion in there.
Panic.
Odd, that. What did Miss Hart have to be panicked about? She wasn’t gambling with her own money. But the way she was behaving… It was as if she were.
She placed her markers on red, her shoulders set in the posture of someone holding her breath while the wheel spun. The marble skittered and hopped until, at last, finding a home—8.
Black.
She gasped and went stone still.
“Shall we try our luck at the hazard table?” he asked. He needed to pry her away from roulette.
She shook her head, silent, body tensed with held breath.
Something was wrong. Very wrong. More wrong than simply losing a few guineas at roulette. “Miss Hart, perhaps it would be best if we—”
Then she exhaled a great heave of breath and along with it a great, wet sob. Here, at Chaz’s roulette table, the woman began weeping. “Oh, why can nothing go right?” she blubbered.
Archie took Miss Hart by the shoulders and met her square in the eyes. What he saw there weren’t tears of sadness or loss, but rather tears of anger and frustration.
Right.
He wrapped his hand around her upper arm and set a brisk pace as he marched her outside and down the street, the first golden rays of dawn streaking across the morning sky. He pulled her into the first deserted alcove they came to and made her face him.
“Now,” he said, stern, “what the devil is going on? Tell me.” He could deliver a lordly command when circumstances called for it. Like now.
She swiped tears away with the back of her hand and sniffled. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”
Archie wasn’t particularly bothered. He had experience in dealing with stubborn females—namely two stubborn sisters and a stubborn cousin, to boot.
“You see, I have a basic inability to stay out of other people’s business.
Let’s start with the simplest question first. Why were you on the Five Graces stage pretending to be an Italian contessa? ”
The woman before him suddenly looked tired and vulnerable, wearied not simply by a long night and a great explosion of emotion, but by life itself. He sensed a relenting in her.
“So the haute ton will let me sing for it.”
His brow lifted in surprise. “Why? For money? Is that why you were playing roulette as if your life depended on it? If that’s all you need, then go to Paris or Italy and open your mouth. You’ll be a sensation overnight.”
She shook her head. She looked…defeated. Archie didn’t like that one single bit.
“I need to gain entry into a room with someone in London,” she said.
“Someone?”
“A man.”
“A man?” He would stand here all day and pry the entire story from her word by word, if that was what it took. “Forgive my forwardness, but with your looks, you could find yourself in a room with any man you like with a crook of your little finger.”
She exhaled a wearied sigh. “A lord.”
“My statement stands.”
Miss Hart rolled her eyes toward the brightening sky. Good. It felt right that her spunk was returning.
“At the risk of sounding repetitive,” he said, “I’ll ask again. Why?”
Her gaze followed the slow, lumbering progress of a donkey cart. Archie didn’t think she would answer. Then she said, “My father is an apothecary, from a long line of apothecaries. With each generation, the business has become more successful. Papa was approached by a lord with an opportunity.”
She appeared to be bracing herself for what came next. Archie felt himself doing the same.
“This lord knew for a fact that the royal apothecary would be going into retirement soon. If Papa wanted his name considered for the position, this lord would mention him.” Her jaw clenched and released. “For a small fee.”
Archie saw how this would go. “Which wasn’t small for anyone not an aristocrat.”
She nodded. “Large enough to put a business in danger of bankruptcy.”
“But it would be worth it to secure royal patronage.”
“Which the lord guaranteed.”
“He took your father’s money.”
“And Papa never heard from him again. Then…”
“Then?”
“Papa was at the pub one night and overheard a stonemason telling the same story. They soon learned this lord had been playing this same swindle on men from various professions throughout the countryside. But they also knew there was nothing they could do about it.”
“Why is that?”
She tossed him a bitter smile. “Because lords are untouchable, my lord.”
Archie felt the sting of her barb. But what stung most was that she wasn’t wrong. Still, he had a question. “How does that add up to you singing at the Five Graces?”
“I had to do something.”
“I can’t imagine that would afford you enough money to save your father from debtor’s prison.”
“The Five Graces was only the first part of my plan.”
Her mouth clamped shut. It was clear she wasn’t going to tell him the rest right now. No matter. They could get to that later.
For now, he had another question. “What is this lord’s name?”
“Lord Nestor.”
Reflexively, Archie’s jaw tensed.
Miss Hart’s gaze narrowed on him. “You know this lord?”
“I have that particular misfortune.”
“Let me guess. You’ve been friends since childhood.”
“Friends would be overstating the relationship.”
“You don’t like him.”
“I don’t.” That was putting it mildly. It was almost too much information at once, and he realized they both needed a rest. “Can I drop you home?”
“Home is several miles north, Hampstead village.” She shifted on her feet. “Mr. Degrass allowed me a cot backstage at the Five Graces.”
That made up Archie’s mind. “You’re coming with me.”
She canted her head. “Is life always like this with you?”
“Like what?”
“A complete whirlwind.”
Archie didn’t even have to think. “Yes.”
He left her standing on the cobblestone sidewalk, mouth slightly agape, as he stepped to the street and flagged down a hackney with a short, sharp whistle.
Soon after, they’d settled onto opposite benches in the conveyance, her eyes fluttered shut and she drifted off to sleep, giving him room for thought.
Was he taking this matter too far?
Possibly.
But didn’t he take everything too far? Wasn’t he known for it?
This woman—Miss Valentina Hart—she was the first breath of inspiration he’d experienced in months. He mustn’t let his muse slip away. But…
How far would he go for inspiration?
That wasn’t the correct question.
How far wouldn’t he go?
Half an hour later, they arrived at Casa Windermere, the family’s mansion in Mayfair. He tapped Miss Hart’s knee as they approached. She startled awake, her eyes wide as she attempted to orient herself.
“We’ve arrived,” he said. “You shall stay here until we get you all sorted.”
She blinked and gathered her wits. “I’m not yours to sort.”
He shrugged, uninterested in arguing the point.
He stepped down from the carriage and held out his hand to help her alight. She hesitated a moment before placing her hand in his.
He understood why the instant she did—as a responding spark blazed through him.
This taking of her hand felt suspiciously—remarkably—like an intimacy.
Then her feet were on the ground, and he was holding her hand two heartbeats too long, and his gaze had settled on that ruby-red, made-for-sin mouth of hers.
His grip relented, and she snatched her hand back as if singed. Her eyes wanted to know what had just happened, and his body wanted to show her.
Right.
He was halfway to a cockstand.
Right.
He cleared his throat. “My sister’s lady’s maid Tucker will assist you with all your needs.”
He bowed and pivoted on his heel, leaving Miss Hart to the care of servants as he made his way to his study.
All of her needs?
He could think of a few he could help with, for she radiated a luscious sensuality that looked primed to be awakened.
No.
He must cease these thoughts. The woman needed his help, and that was all. He wasn’t a heartless rake, but a Windermere, a little wild, yes, but noble.
It was time he started thinking like it.